Pancakes: No Sprinkles
by copyallcatsandacrobats
Summary: Lassiter is not pleased when he is roped into keeping Shawn Spencer in his custody overnight. (First chapter only—due to the second chapter's content the entire fic can be found on AO3 under the same author name/title.) Shawn/Lassiter first time/smut/possible relationship.


**Notes**: Takes place between 3x13 ("Any Given Monday Night At 10PM, 9PM Central") and 3x14 ("Truer Lies"). Many thanks to my friend Sara for beta-reading. **This is not the whole story**_**. **_The whole fic can be **found on AO3 (/works/1239016/chapters/2544172)**; only the first chapter will be posted here due to the explicit/sexual nature of the second chapter.

_Pancake: In air intercept, a code meaning, "Land," or, "I wish to land" (reason may be specified; e.g., "pancake ammo," "pancake fuel")._

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"I'm bored," Spencer whines.

"This is stupid," Spencer whines.

"I just wanted to make a hat out of it," Spencer whines.

"I'll stop whining if you let me breathe," Spencer whines.

Lassiter growls one last time into the idiot's face, snatches the case file back out of his idiot hands, and finally releases him into the chair next to his desk.

Spencer glares at him, adding a touch of a juvenile pout, and theatrically tugs his shirt collar back into place. "If you'd just let me _leave_ I'll gladly get out of your hair, Lassy. Not that you have m—"

"Shut. Up." Lassiter levels a finger at him in lieu of making a grab for his cuffs to fasten him to the chair again. O'Hara hadn't liked that, and he actually _does _have to work with her. "Do you want to go back downstairs, back into the holding cell with the friendly murderer we just put in there?"

"With _my _help. If it wasn't for _my _visions—"

"Yeah, yeah, if it wasn't for your visions you'd never be sure who was wearing matching underwear. And in case you forgot, the guy down there with the winning smile watched you flail around and name him as the accomplice. Keep pushing me, Spencer, and I'll just tell the Chief we needed some peace and quiet to finish trying to confirm _your alibi, _which we both know is a crock." Lassiter drops back down into his own chair. "I'm not the one that _asked_ to baby-sit you, you know."

"So _don't_. I'm a big boy, Lassy. I left the Pull-Ups behind in 1981 and everything." Spencer doesn't seem to be trying to get up again or reach for any of the desk's contents in his general area, so Lassiter doesn't look at him. There's quiet for a moment, and then he hears a small snicker. "Matching underwear? Do your Underoos have 'Monday' on them? Which would be good, great in fact," Spencer goes on hurriedly as Lassiter's shoulders tense, "since today's totally not Tuesday."

"One more word... "

"Which one? Do I have to guess, or can I ask the spirits for a leg up?" Spencer touches his fingers to his forehead and pulls a face. "Umm... it's 'kerfuffle'. No? No, it's 'pancake'. Yup, definitely 'pancake'. Which is making me hungry—my senses are totally telling me right now that breakfast would make a great dinner, so I'll just be going, do you want anything?"

"Spencer, I swear to the blindfold of justice itself—"

"No!" Spencer puts his hands up to ward off, even though Lassiter has barely even turned in his seat. "It really is 'pancake'." He points to the folded-up military crossword Lassiter had barely gotten started with that morning before being called in early to deal with more psychic bullshit. "Your eleven down, seven letters: pancake. You want whipped cream and sprinkles, right? I will be _right back_."

"That is _it_." Lassiter throws his pen down and stands up in time to see the Chief come out of her office and point at him, effectively summoning him.

"Bring Mr. Spencer," she adds, seeing O'Hara coming up the corridor and motioning to her as well. Lassiter rolls his eyes and stalks to the office, knowing the department's uninvited—and unwanted—pet will follow.

When Spencer turns wounded puppy eyes on him five minutes later, Lassiter snaps, "Denied!" before he can even get anything out. Wow, that felt good. "Don't even _think_ about it," he goes on. Yep. "Not even going to happen if I wake up Chief tomorrow." Bliss. Then he sees Vick's raised eyebrows and subsides a little. "Uh, with respect, Chief. What I mean to say is that I'm absolutely through baby-sitting, especially on my day off-duty."

"But I'll pay you three dollars an hour and you get to raid the fridge," Spencer whines.

"You mean Gus will pay him three dollars an hour," O'Hara says.

"I bet I could even get him to up to three-fifty and a sixth-month subscription to _Guns & Ammo_." Spencer nods seriously.

Lassiter grins, savoring the look he's going to see in about half an hour, when his least-favorite fraud is spending the night behind bars in place of bail. "I'm paid up through the year, thanks. In fact, I think I'll spend tonight reading. In quiet, and solitude. On my nice, comfy sofa."

"Chief, perhaps I could—" O'Hara begins.

Vick is already shaking her head. "No, Detective, you were only just able to get here, so you're still on duty tonight. There's no one to cover you except Carlton—"

"I'd rather cover her," Lassiter says immediately.

"—but he's already been on since this morning, and I can't ask him to work another twenty-four hours so soon after the last."

"I can do it," he says, annoyed. "It was two days ago, and I'd much rather work overtime than baby-sit."

"I don't need _anyone_ to watch over me," Spencer says again. "The spirit world lets me know when I need to lay low. Or lay with someone new. Also when I need new underwear, which may be why I haven't heard anything about a fresh date lately." He bounces his eyebrows at O'Hara, who shakes her head slowly, though the corners of her mouth turn up.

Lassiter rolls his eyes again. "It did a _real_ good job of letting you know that you can't hide in a senator's bathroom for six hours and raid his desk."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Spencer," Vick says, sounding so. "Detective Lassiter was unable to confirm your given alibi. Unfortunately, he is the only member of my department I can release you to, and if he's this clearly against the idea, I'm afraid there's nothing I can do. You do appear to have broken into the Senator's office, and he's unwilling to come down until tomorrow morning to consider dropping the breaking-and-entering charges against you."

Spencer looks offended. "I maintain that that's completely unfounded."

"There's _video _of _your face_ in his office, you moron!" Lassiter says. Vick gives him a slightly exasperated look, and he subsides again, willing enough to let it go now that it's not going to be his problem in five minutes. "Your father knows you did it—that's why he won't come down to bail you out, right?"

"But I didn't break in!" he continues to insist. "I mean, it's true that I entered, but so did the senator, and the contractors were just not into the idea of building the new floor around me. Plus, it would have been really hard to find time to go away to get Lassy's pancakes every morning."

"You've never gotten me pancakes."

"Oh." Spencer touches his forehead again, a move that consistently makes Lassiter want to break out the older sibling move of smacking his own hand back into his face. "I must've been getting that from this coming week. It's a prediction I made earlier, and guess what? It includes sprinkles."

"I don't care about sprinkles."

Spencer puts his hands up, exasperated. "Fine, no sprinkles. Boy can this guy take all the fun out of breakfast in bed."

"Request denied, and I have work to do," Lassiter says loudly. "Excuse me, Chief."

"Just one more second, please, Carlton." Vick sighs. "I can't make you give up your off-duty time, but I'm going to ask you to reconsider. Mr. Spencer has been a help to this department time and time again, several times of his own volition."

"Including the time he immediately said you didn't kill Chavez," O'Hara adds unhelpfully.

"Nobody needed _him_ to tell you that," Lassiter grumbles.

"But I was the one that proved it," Spencer says, smiling in what he evidently thinks is a winning way. "Because I believed in you. How about a little benefit of the doubt coming back my way once, huh? _Pancakes_. How is it even possible to pass that up?" He shrugs at O'Hara.

"Because I don't _like _pancakes, Spencer! No, you know what I want?" Lassiter holds up a hand to forestall whatever nonsense would have come after that. "I want you to shut up. Absolutely and completely, _shut up_, for _once_."

Spencer appears to be considering this. "How long is a 'once'?" he asks finally. "Because I'll give anything a shot that doesn't involve me sitting in a cell with the dude who wants to rearrange my face."

"The _entire_ night."

"So... if I shut up the rest of the night, you'll let me come hang out with you instead of figuring out how far I can crawl under a cell cot?"

"You wouldn't have to stay in the same cell," Vick explains gently. "There's more than one."

"His bad vibes would destroy my ability to divinate," Spencer says at once. "The spirits that watch out for me get scared when someone wants to kill me. My powers would be severely weakened for months."

Vick makes eye contact with Lassiter. "If I can release Mr. Spencer to your custody, you can leave as soon as you're done filing your report of the victim's injuries. We'll expect both of you back tomorrow morning at eight."

He can see he's beaten. "_Fine_." He glares at Spencer, who looks grossly pleased and relieved. "But if—and _only_ if—you can sit your ass still _and quiet _in that chair next to my desk until I'm finished. Do you really think you can do that, or are you just wasting everyone's time again?"

"I can do that," he says. "Not sure how I'll waste my time, though."

"No one cares."

"If you have anything I can help with—"

"Not at this moment, Mr. Spencer," Vick says, giving him a stern look. "The department is very thankful for all of your help, but right now I can't help but feel that it's in your best interests to sit still for a while."

Spencer shrugs. "Okay. Can I have my phone back?"

"It's evidence," Lassiter says at once. It is, but he also doesn't want to listen to game noises or buzzy text chimes, since this is very much not fake-psychic play time. "I'm not releasing it so that you can distract me all night."

"I'm sure you can go without it for now," Vick says, and holds out her hand to the clerk who taps on her office doors with a thin folder. "Thank you, Officer Ortiz. Carlton, I need you to sign off on Mr. Spencer being in your custody in lieu of bail. Mr. Spencer, you'll need to sign after the last paragraph, indicating your awareness that you can be brought back into official department custody if at any time Detective Lassiter feels that he cannot adequately keep you under his personal watch without jeopardizing either of your safeties." She raises her eyebrows at him, giving the underlying meaning a hefty push into the open.

"Or my sanity," Lassiter mutters, scratching his name.

"Oh, sure. I feel as safe as the people under the stairs," Spencer says lightly, leaning over to scribble.

"I think I saw that one," O'Hara muses bemusedly. "Weren't they cannibals?"

"Yeah. So what's for dinner, Lassy?" Spencer asks brightly, following him out of the Chief's office and plopping back down into the chair next to the Head Detective's desk. Lassiter scowls, but doesn't respond, not pleased about the work left to do, along with the prospect of trying to not toss the smart-ass out of his moving car on the way back to his house.

O'Hara soon leaves with Detective Billick to collect a suspect in another case, but before she goes, Spencer manages to convince her—in huge, loud, prison yard whispers—to give him some paper and a pen. Lassiter ignores him and focuses on his report, transcribing his notes from the scene of what turned out to be not a random stabbing, but possibly a bribery attempt gone wrong, and the next time he glances at the clock in the corner of his computer screen, almost an hour has gone by and he doesn't remember hearing a peep from Spencer. He looks over and sees him still in the chair, sitting sideways with his back against a filing cabinet, and swinging one leg while gently gnawing on the end of the pen. There's a small pile of paper covered in a looping print on the floor.

"What are you doing?" Lassiter asks, too curious to let all of that slide. He's never known Spencer to be this quiet or to actually remain seated for this long.

"Mmm?" Spencer flicks his eyes up after a moment. "I'm hunting wabbits. What are you doing?"

He's already sorry he asked. "Working. Never mind, just keep being quiet."

"You're not done yet?"

"No." He pauses and glances down at the pile of paper again. "What is that, your confession?"

Spencer snorts. "Yeah, no. I would need a lot more paper."

"I don't doubt it."

"Can I have more paper?"

Lassiter raises his eyebrows. "You're going to write out a confession? I don't think we _have_ enough paper."

Spencer grins like a jackass. "You're going to have to work harder than that for any of _my_ big secrets. No, this is just my _Criminal Minds_ fanfiction—my readers are loving my new serial killer. She's obsessed with guns and leaves parts of squirrels everywhere she goes, which is obviously an indicator of a bad, bad girl. She calls herself The Sassy Lassie." He pauses to tap the cap of the pen thoughtfully against one lip. "She doesn't like pancakes, the crazy bitch."

"All right," Lassiter snaps. "I don't give a crap what you're doing, as long as you stay quiet."

"I _was_ being quiet. And if you must know, I really do have ideas for some TV episodes—I write out stories, Gus fine-tunes them and fixes detaily crap no one cares about, and we send them around sometimes. I keep a stockpile of bits and pieces of plots and characters for when I'm bored."

"Nothing from real cases!" Lassiter wheels around, almost shocked.

Spencer looks affronted again. "Of course not. How could I even dream to top The Mystery of the Missing Peanut M&Ms from your bottom desk drawer?"

"They're not missing, they're—" Lassiter stops, yanks open his drawer, and sighs.

"Here's a clue," Spencer says. "I ate them half an hour ago. They were stale. Replace your snacks once in a while, jeez. How long does it even take for a peanut to go stale? See, if I had my phone, I could ask Gus, and you wouldn't be stuck having a stupid conversation instead of finishing your own detaily crap and we could get some real dinner, like pizza-chili-cheese fries, with a side of heartburn for my favorite sass master, C-C-Carlton Lassiter."

Good god, this _is_ a stupid conversation. And he's been having it. "I wouldn't eat that junk if I was starving." He rolls his eyes again. "I'm sorry for engaging you—if you can pipe back down and I can get back to work, we can stop so you can get something to eat on the way."

"Can I have more paper? I need to make a duck. And the duck needs a friend."

Of course it does. Lassiter closes his eyes briefly, then waves a hand toward the printer and its sheaf of paper below. He watches out of the corner of his eye as Spencer stands up and stretches, lopes over to the printer and collects some paper, glances around once, then comes back to plop back down in the chair. He starts folding it seemingly at random, and Lassiter turns back to his work.

Another hour later, he just finishes telling Spencer off for offering origami ducks to every single person that passes by, along with the nonsensical life story of said paper fowl, when another folder appears out of the blue over his keyboard. He curses under his breath, flips it open, and just manages to resist putting a red X on it and taking it to the firing range.

"How much longer?" Spencer whines. "Is that _more_ stuff you need to do? I'll help you if we can leave. Weren't we supposed to be able to go, like, two hours ago?"

"Yeah, well, that's the beauty of _real_ detective work," Lassiter says curtly. "You don't always get to pick your hours, nor do you get to lay around all day playing video games and watching stupid movies and YouTubing 'how to make a paper farmyard'. It's called, 'Another Case'. If you can shut up for maybe forty-five more minutes, I can try to get this wrapped up enough that I won't have to stay in tomorrow after I bring _you_ back. And you're done with this!" He snatches the rest of the paper away. "Honestly!"

"Great gosh and fishes!" Spencer trills, then subsides at the look Lassiter gives him. "Okay _okay_. Am I allowed to take a nap?"

"Yeah, fine, do that. Just don't leave that chair and I don't want to hear anything else from you."

"Sir yes sir."

Lassiter turns to give the little shit another glare, but that last one sounded more weary than impertinent, and he's turning around in the chair and actually settling down. Lassiter decides to let it go, shaking his head a little. If only that smart mouth could find its way to coming up with something useful once in a while instead of a never ending stream of wisecracks, but if pigs had wings, bacon would be airborne. He goes back to re-reading witness statements and an autopsy report, frowning at an inconsistency in the timeline. Chasing that down takes another thirty-five minutes, and he's so relieved when he hits a momentary dead end (_follow-up 2nd fem. vic t.o.d. re: body discovery site_, he jots on a hellish pink post-it from O'Hara's desk) that he leans back in his chair and closes his eyes for a moment.

"Hey, Detective Lassiter."

He looks up to see a very reluctant, very tall officer. "If this is about your wife, McNab, this is _not_ the time."

"No, no. Officer Krebs said to get you. They called in your partner, but she's not here yet and it could be big."

He sighs. "What is it?"

"Fifteen-year-old girl was pulled over, speeding and reckless, driving a 2002 Camaro. The K-9 reacted and they found some cocaine, but that led to them finding blood and hair in the back hatch. The girl says she knows nothing about that, but." McNab shrugs.

Now Lassiter groans, thinking that this day will never, ever end. At least Spencer is still dozing and hasn't made a sound. "Hits on the car?"

"It was called in missing about a month ago, but upon arrest she said it was her sixteenth birthday and her grandmother just bought it for her."

Lassiter rolls his eyes. "Right," he says. "I think that one's a little too big to go down _my_ throat."

Suddenly, Spencer breaks into loud, long peals of laughter. Lassiter looks at him, slightly startled and bewildered. Then he gets it. "Ha ha!" he shouts. "Shut up, you're asleep!"

The size of that smirk should be outlawed. "Totally asleep," Spencer says, eyes closed but still snickering. "That was so golden it must have been a dream."

"Great," Lassiter says under his breath. He makes shooing motions at McNab, who rightly does an about-face to deliver the message that the head detective is on his way. Said Head Detective wonders how in the hell he's going to make their resident chattermouth actually stay put while he questions the suspect, especially since he's not supposed to let him out of his sight until tomorrow morning. "Spencer, I'll make you a deal."

"Interested."

"_Never_ speak of that again, and you can come downstairs with me and observe the interrogation." Not that Spencer really needs to see the questioning process again, but this one _does _look like it might be big, and Lassiter can't think of what else to do with him in the next two minutes. Plus... ugh... he might pick up on something. It's been known to happen, and it's also been known to be helpful, no matter where he _really _gets his information.

Spencer opens his eyes and sits up. "Not even to Gus? C'mon Lassifras, even if it wasn't totally and completely Freudian, it was funny. Don't be ashamed, just yesterday I accidentally made it sound like I was going to date a foot-long hot dog, not that I ate one."

Lassiter snorts. "If _that _one's not Freudian..."

They're halfway down the hall when O'Hara comes in, tucking an empty paper coffee cup into a small trash bin near the doors. "Sorry," she says. "I can take it, Carlton. I'm sorry you're still here."

He frowns. "I'm Head Detective, I should be in on this."

"You can just as easily question her tomorrow, if you find anything lacking in my technique," O'Hara points out. "You've been here all morning and now all day and all night."

"Don't worry Jules, I'm almost ready to take him home." Spencer grins. "He's got his grumpypants on and needs to get out of them one way or another."

Lassiter ignores him. "I wasn't saying you couldn't, I meant that we need to get it done right as soon as possible, and I'm your superior."

"Ooooh," Spencer says softly. "Low blow, Jules. I wouldn't take that if I were you. Show off your grilling technique—I could really go for a steak right now."

"Shut up," both detectives say at once. O'Hara actually looks annoyed now, which makes him raise his eyebrows slightly and obey, something Lassiter is almost willing to let her take lead for. "Why don't you go home, Carlton?" O'Hara asks sternly. "I'll take over whatever you're working on after I question the girl downstairs—"

"If she doesn't give up anything, which she will if you know how to get it out of her," Lassiter says impatiently. "She's young, kids are easy to terrify."

"I'm just about terrified right now," Spencer mutters, but neither detective budges from their stubborn eye-lock.

"If she doesn't, some time in the holding cell should give her some time to think it over while I try to get ahold of her guardians. That's standard. If there's still nothing, _I will take over your current case_ so that you can _go home_ and get some sleep. I'm sure Shawn wouldn't mind getting out of here, either."

"Actually—"

"Shut up!"

"'Up' isn't _open."_

Now O'Hara really does round on him. "Shawn, I swear to God—"

"Get your ass back over there if you want to keep it," Lassiter snarls, pointing back toward his desk and the chair Spencer had been in.

"Going, going." Spencer puts up his hands and turns, then turns back and talks as he walks backward. "But I'll have you know my ass has been a full member of the local lending library for three years now. There's even a waiting list, though I could easily pull some strings and get you bumped up."

"You see what I've been putting up with all day?" Lassiter scowls at his partner. "I need a break, and the car-thieving brat downstairs is mine."

"Nuh uh, I call her." O'Hara folds her arms.

"You can't _call_ a suspect!"

"Shawn, back me up or I'll give you full permission to get cuddly in Carlton's house tonight," the sneaking backstabber calls.

"Um, no can do, Jules. I'm pretty sure he would kill me? For either infraction, actually."

"Damn right." Lassiter turns to menace at him. When he does, he sees Spencer's eyes track something behind him, and he turns around again in time to see the end of O'Hara's horsetail as she sprints down the corridor toward the interrogation rooms. "Oh, for the love of _Christmas_," he fumes.

"Annnnd, she's off!" Spencer intones. "That's Jewel-Tone Jules by a hair, followed closely but oh-too-secondly by Help-Lassy-Timmy-Fell-Down-A-Well. Unfortunately, the hair comes before the Head, but it was neck-and-neck there for a while. All ticket holders should check the boards before ripping up their life savings."

"Speaking of saving your life, Spencer..." Lassiter begins loudly. "I'm suddenly not sure I can keep you safe. Better stick you downstairs for freshness."

"I didn't side with her! And look." He makes the lips-zipped pantomime, complete with tossing away the key.

"That better not be retractable." Lassiter glances down the stairs once more, then heads back to his desk. "One more word though—and no, it doesn't _at all_ matter which word—and I won't give you the pleasure of annoying the ever-loving crap out of me tonight. I've absolutely had it."

Spencer crosses his heart, still with lips pressed firmly together, and Lassiter gives him another five seconds of the death stare before tearing his eyes away and trying to refocus on what he was doing. Right, a few calls to make and a few people to re-interview in the morning. He thinks it can't hurt to check what they have on the kid downstairs—probably nothing yet, but there should at least be the missing car report—and before he knows it another forty minutes are gone.

Spencer's shifting around in his chair again, making it creak. Lassiter checks on him and sees that he's dozing again, his shoulders hunched and arms crossed as if he's cold, his head tilted over on one shoulder. "Done yet?" he mumbles.

"No." Lassiter sighs and rubs his eyes; they're tired and scratchy, and his legs are beginning to ache from sitting for so long. He's been trying to trace the car's whereabouts since it was stolen, waiting for O'Hara to come back and tell him if the teenager has given anything up yet, and can't believe it's taking so long. He would have had her confessing to stealing her grandmother's cigarette money in twenty minutes. "Almost." Spencer mumbles something. "Just go back to sleep," Lassiter says, leaning forward to his desk again.

Spencer's eyes don't open, but he shifts a little more, and his head rolls over to his other shoulder. "Just take me to bed, Lassy."

What.

Lassiter's raises his head a little and slowly looks at Spencer, who is slumped all of the way over now and appears to indeed be asleep again. He must have misheard that. Or Spencer got two or three different things jumbled around to make one odd phrase. He obviously meant to say, "You should let me go to bed," or, "Just take me home." Something like that.

Weird.

And it's not like he hasn't occasionally thought of doing just that.

His fingers rest on his keyboard, but gently, and they don't move to cast him any closer to home. He can't help but glance at Spencer again, frowning slightly. No, that just... can't possibly be what he said. And _definitely _not what he meant... not with all the big eyes and glib comments toward O'Hara. Unless he... but...

No. It's nothing, no need to make a federal case out of it. If anything, it's definitely time to get back to work. Lassiter does so, trying to throw his mind back into traffic violations on the red light cameras' license plate lists, and he almost entirely makes it.

.

_**Reminder **_that this is not the whole story, but all that can be posted on this site. **Check out the entire fic ****on AO3 (/works/1239016/chapters/2544172)** if you're interested to know what happens next.


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